Beyond a Darkened Shore

by Jessica Leake

  I leaped onto Sleipnir’s back behind my prisoner.

  Apprehension at what I’d done filled me. If my father returned—no, when, I corrected myself angrily—I’d have to explain why I hadn’t immediately killed the Northman when I had the chance.

  But first, I’d have to explain my logic to myself.

  3

  There was only one place I trusted to keep a prisoner both secure and secret—at least for a while. A tiny cave carved into the high cliffs by the sea, easily the most miserable place in our kingdom.

  The sea roared beneath us as we hugged the side of the cliff. Conall and Fergus grunted under the weight of their unconscious charge, and I led the way over the rocky path to the cave. It was only the three of us who were able to drag our captive to his new prison; the rest stayed behind to guard the way until the enemy fully retreated. We followed a steep goat trail to a small cave carved out of the rock. Jagged rocks awaited us if we fell, but this was a path we knew well. Once I slipped inside, I helped pull the Northman into the cool darkness.

  Manacles dangled from chains attached to the wall, and I fastened them around the Northman’s wrists. I gritted my teeth as I touched him in such a familiar way. His arms were surprisingly heavy, the lean bands of muscles pulling the chains taut as soon as they were fastened. He slumped forward, his head on his chest, arms outstretched. His long hair escaped the leather thong that kept it bound, some of the blond strands preventing me from seeing his face.

  I leaned back on my heels. I didn’t understand why the voice had made me spare this man’s life. Many times it had warned of battles to come, but it had never intervened in any other way—especially never to spare an enemy’s life. Sometimes the crow appeared with the voice, but not always, proving this was more than simply an enchanted crow. I’d asked it many times what—or who—it was, but I’d never been given an answer. A spirit, a god, a demon . . . it made no difference. All that mattered was that it enabled me to prepare for battle. And now, it had spared my enemy’s life.

  I tilted my head as I studied the warrior before me. He looked like any other Northman—so why had the voice commanded he live? But if I was being truly honest with myself, I knew there was another reason I’d spared him.

  I wanted to know how he’d been able to resist my mind control. After all, who was this warrior whose mind was nothing but a stone wall? Who could resist even my power?

  “Is everything all right, milady?” Conall’s voice snapped me back to the cave. In the dim light, it was hard to see my clansmen, but I knew both had minor injuries from the battle. Conall’s forearm was sticky with clotted blood, and Fergus had added yet another scar to the collection on his craggy face. For all I knew, the Northman I had spared had put those marks on men I’d grown up with. Men who were perhaps the only two who treated me as an equal rather than someone to be feared. I closed my eyes tightly as if the simple act would erase the greasy guilt swirling inside me. Maybe the Northman would awake in a fury and I would be forced to do what I should have done on the battlefield.

  “Go home and tend to your wounds,” I said to Conall and Fergus. “There’s no reason for all three of us to keep watch.”

  Conall, who loved to argue for the pleasure of it, crossed his arms over his chest. “It would be wrong for us to leave you with this barbarian, milady.” He held his arm up to the light. “This is a mere scratch.”

  “Even scratches can fester,” I said. “Go and tell my sisters I’ll be home before nightfall.”

  “Come, Conall,” Fergus said with a grin. “The princess can handle herself, and I’m tired of the blood dripping in my eye.”

  Conall’s face was a mask of disapproval. “That may be, but we shouldn’t leave her here for long. There’s always the possibility the other raiders saw where we took their leader.” His jaw flexed. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just kill him and be done with it? The king will not approve of him being kept prisoner. If he finds out—”

  “And what if this Northman knows what happened at the monastery? What if my father is dead?”

  Fergus and Conall glanced at each other, sharing a look of dismay. Losing my father would be unthinkable for many reasons, the least of which being that it was no secret King Sigtrygg in Dubhlinn wanted our kingdom for himself. Or rather, its riches. And if my father was dead, the king of Dubhlinn wouldn’t waste time waging war to get it.

  “He’s not dead,” Conall said, but anyone could see he said it to comfort himself.

  “The princess has a point,” Fergus said. “If these Northmen raided the monastery, it’s unlikely they left anyone alive to send us word.”

  I glanced at the Northman prisoner again. “And I’d rather know now.”

  “If he’ll even answer you,” Conall said.

  I glanced back at the Northman. “He’ll answer me.”

  Fergus unsheathed his sword, still tinged red from the battle. “I have no doubt of that, milady. Conall, we should scout around before returning to the castle.”

  Conall watched the prisoner for a moment as if hoping he’d suddenly wake. His lip curled when the Northman remained slumped over. “We’ll be back soon, cousin,” he said, and stalked out of the cave, Fergus on his heels.

  I stood at the mouth of the cave until their footsteps had long since become undetectable. I hadn’t lied about wanting to find out if these Northmen were responsible for the raid, but I was also glad to be alone with my strange prisoner. I’d taken over the minds of men bigger and wiser and older than this boy, and yet he’d been able to resist. What was so special about him? It made me feel an unfamiliar sense of vulnerability.

  And then the thought appeared in my mind: What if he’s like me—someone with power?

  It wasn’t a wild thought. I knew I wasn’t entirely alone in having abilities beyond those of most people. There were those who had true visions, who could prophesy. Traders told of people who could do incredible things, like calm a storm at sea. And then there was what my own clansmen whispered about me: that I was a changeling. A faerie child switched at birth with her real human counterpart. Though changelings were rare, they weren’t unheard of, and none had ever turned out to be friendly toward humans—even to the ones who’d raised them. Everyone knew magic was alive and well in Éirinn, despite the majority of its citizens being Christians. Christianity kept some of the monsters at bay . . . but not all.

  My father forbade such talk about me; even rumors of it caused his face to go ruddy with rage. But it did not keep the talk from the castle, whispered behind our backs. As painful as it was to see the apprehension in the servants’ eyes, I couldn’t blame them. Truly, my power was terrifying.

  Was this man powerful in ways I hadn’t encountered before? I picked a spot far out of reach of his chains and sat against the wall. I pulled my legs close to my body and wished I had my green-and-gold-trimmed cloak to ward off the chill. It was cold outside and still colder inside the cave, but at least I was sheltered from the wind. When my mind inevitably wandered to thoughts of the battle, I forced myself to think of other things. The story I would tell my sisters that night when they inevitably demanded one before bed, the sound of the waves crashing on the rock just outside, the chill dampness beneath my legs—anything but the blood and death and violence of battle.

  After a time, the rattle of chains broke the silence. I turned to find the Northman staring at me with eyes that appeared dark in the low light. “I find it strange I am not dining in the halls of Valhalla this night,” he said in Norse-accented Gaelic.

  It took me a moment to puzzle out his meaning. Valhalla was the “hall of the slain”—the Norse equivalent of heaven. Even in death, the Northmen continued their raiding and drinking.

  I stood, and he watched my every move, his gaze tracing the lines of my body. I tried to remember I was a warrior in this instance and not a maiden. Still, heat crept up my neck. “I kept you for questioning,” I said. “There are things I need to know.”

  “What makes
you think I will answer?” he asked, his voice lightly taunting.

  “Either that or I leave you here to die.”

  A ghost smile appeared briefly. “Fair enough, meyja.”

  I knew only a handful of words in Norse, so I didn’t know what he’d called me, but his expression said it was meant to be mocking. “How do you speak Gaelic so well?” I asked, an edge creeping into my voice. “I thought you Northmen too barbaric to bother learning other languages.”

  “Is this why you kept me from Valhalla? To hold a useless conversation on my knowledge of languages?”

  I glared. The fact that I couldn’t understand anything but the simplest words in Norse, but he could converse with me fluently in my own language, made me uncomfortable. “I spared your life to determine whether you raided the monastery north of here.”

  Silent, he only stared back at me. Inwardly I forced my rising frustration down; I knew better than to say anything else. Letting silence grow until it settled on one’s shoulders like a sodden wool cape was enough to force someone to talk. Usually, the mere threat of my mental abilities was enough to loosen stubborn tongues. But this particular prisoner had been immune.

  Well, there were always blades.

  But before I could reach for my sword, he spoke. “My life is in the hands of the gods.” I enjoyed a small thrill at him having capitulated first. “I owe you nothing.”

  “Your Norse gods hold no power here. By all rights, I should have killed you on the battlefield, but I didn’t. I could kill you now. And still you will not answer?”

  He stared mutely, as though he no longer understood Gaelic.

  I considered the chains that bound him for a moment, and it occurred to me that if I wasn’t able to take possession of his mind on the battlefield, perhaps now that he was in a weakened state, I’d be successful at forcing the answers from his mind. I stared him down as though trying to intimidate him. All the while, I opened myself to my power, pushing through the blinding pain behind my eyes. I concentrated, my entire being focused on the prisoner in front of me.

  And again I hit a wall, an impregnable nothingness. Most people’s minds had no defenses; their every thought and feeling pelted me like rain the moment I reached out. But with the Northman, there was only silence. I pushed harder. A hint of confusion flitted across his face for a moment—he felt something, at least. When I pushed again, the nothingness repelled my mental attack.

  The pain in my head intensified, and the many small wounds on my body from the battle throbbed. With fatigue came the severing of my patience.

  “I hope your gods will keep you warm in this cave tonight. When the tide rises and the wind beats at the door, perhaps you will consider my request for answers.”

  His face revealed no emotion, no evidence that he had even heard or understood my threat.

  I turned on my heel and stalked out of the cave. Already the night had turned bitterly cold, the type of cold that made one desperate for a fire. The kind of cold that should loosen a prisoner’s tongue to guarantee he’s never abandoned in such an environment again.

  The goat trail was as inhospitable as always, causing me to choose my footholds carefully. Heavy footsteps announced Fergus’s approach, and once I had reached the bottom of the trail, I held my hand aloft in greeting.

  Fergus’s eyebrows rose the moment he took in my frustrated expression. “The prisoner refused to answer you?” he asked. “But how—with your . . . abilities . . .” He trailed off, and I was surprised he’d said as much as he had. My mental powers weren’t a subject many enjoyed talking about.

  I shook my head. “I wish I had an answer for you.” I glanced up at the darkened cave. “The wind and tide will do the job well enough, I’m sure. If not . . .”

  “I could break his silence for you, milady.” He smiled then, for both Conall and Fergus loved nothing more than the chance to use their swords.

  “You may get the chance,” I said. My muscles tensed as I remembered the prisoner’s mute stare, but even so, torture wasn’t one of my strengths. “You needn’t make the trek to the cave. It was hard going just now, and if you’ve nominated yourself as guard, then you’d be much warmer here.”

  He shrugged, and the flame from the torch he held danced merrily. “I would be glad to escort ye back, milady. The Northman scum will keep in his prison tonight—the manacles will see to that. And even if he should escape, he will surely fall to his death.”

  I glanced back at the dizzying height of the cliff, and the rocks and sea waiting hungrily at the bottom. Escape would indeed be risky, even for an uninjured warrior.

  “I can see well enough in this light. I have no need for an escort. But what of my mother and sisters? Are they well?”

  “Aye, milady. Only eager to see ye.”

  A relieved breath escaped me. Thanks be to God. “I will go to them, then. Thank you, Fergus.” As I walked away, I called back over my shoulder, “I’ll be sure to relieve you of your post in the morning.”

  Fergus chuckled, settling himself down among the rocks. “I have no doubt you’ll be back. It’s not many who would stand up to ye.”

  My muscles were drawn as tight as a bow as I hurried back to the castle keep. Fergus was wrong. I wasn’t angry because the Northman had defied me—that was to be expected. No, it was the fact that he continued to resist me that fueled my anger. With him so physically weak, it should have been easy to break through his mental defenses and access the information I needed. It was too great a risk to send anyone to the monastery now, not after we had lost so many in battle; we needed his information. But what if we stalled too long and the Northmen should come back for their leader? Truly, the man was a liability. It would be better to chop off his head and throw him into the sea.

  You need him, the dangerous voice whispered.

  Warily, I scanned the environment around me. I didn’t see the crow, just darkness around me.

  Who are you? I asked.

  No answer, and in this, at least, I found comfort. The voice never responded. Perhaps I was foolish to listen, possibly even reckless. For all I knew, it was a demon whispering warnings to me.

  It wouldn’t have been the first time such a thing had happened here. The coast could be a dangerous place, not just because of the hungry sea, heights that could maim as easily as kill, or rocks lying in wait to break one’s bones, but because of the creatures that made it their home.

  As a child, I was told a tale of a sluagh who tormented an old woman who lived in a fisherman’s hut not far from here. The restless spirit took the form of a vulture, and followed her night and day, perching on her roof, its talons scraping across the thatching until it drove her mad. It whispered things to her, evil things, and after a time, she succumbed to it. She plucked out her husband’s eyes in the night and threw herself into the sea.

  But this was a familiar voice, even though the intercession was unusual. Needed him for what? What could a Northman pagan possibly help me with?

  Suddenly, I was angry at myself. I shouldn’t have spared the Northman’s life. I was feared and disliked enough within my own clan. Why bring more trouble upon myself? But even as I thought that, I knew I couldn’t execute him.

  Not without reason.

  4

  When I returned to the castle, my sisters were huddled under a bear’s pelt in front of the fire in my room, their deft fingers weaving needles in and out of embroidery, their golden hair shimmering in the light. Branna threw her needlework down as soon as she saw me. She wrapped her slim, freckled arms around me for a tight embrace. Deirdre, ever the more reserved of the two, hung back by the fireplace.

  I held out my arm to her, and she joined in. “I’m so thankful you are both unharmed,” I said.

  “We were never in any danger,” Branna said. “Thanks to you.”

  Deirdre nodded solemnly and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Why must you fight with the men, Ciara? It’s so frightening, and I couldn’t bear it if anything should happen t
o you.”

  “I never wanted to leave you, but I have a duty to you and to this clan. As long as I have the power to keep those who would harm us away, I must use it.”

  “Branna is right in saying we were all afraid for you,” my mother said from the doorway of the room. Her long blond hair was plaited, and she wore her warmest fur-trimmed robe. With the same sky-blue eyes as my sisters, she was often mistaken for their older sibling. With my hair as dark as crows’ feathers, pale skin, and dark eyes, it was no wonder I was rumored to be a changeling. Not for the first time, the similarities in the three of them caused a dark feeling of foreboding to make its home in my chest.

  “Máthair, it is for you and my sisters that I fight. It would be sinful of me to remain here when I can make a difference on the battlefield.”

  “You didn’t allow me to finish,” my mother scolded. “Branna, Deirdre, we must be strong for Ciara. She risks much for us, and it only burdens her heart to have us beg her not to leave.”

  Deirdre hung her head. “Yes, Máthair.”

  But Branna regarded me with a determined expression that reminded me of the Northman boy of the battlefield. “Since the battle is over, will you accompany us to the market tomorrow?”

  God willing, I would be extracting answers from a prisoner tomorrow. “Bran, I—”

  “Your sister cannot leave the castle,” our mother said, her voice quietly firm. “Especially with so many of our men away.”